


fingers in vine

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Vomiting, rosy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23153608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: Erik thanks the court in the only way he knows how, prostrating himself body and soul to anyone hungry enough to feed. And the Sultana was starving.Prequel to "bandaged dolls bleeding out"
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Little Sultana, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I like sandwiching angsty stories between funny ones (it's a good way to have mood whiplash haha), so this is my angsty contribution for the week. 
> 
> Note: I don't consider POTO's Shah to be a portrayal of the real Nasseriddin, more of an AU fictional counterpart so this is how I write him in this series. That said, "Lights Out" is an actual game the real Shah played. Warning for the usual: some violence and angst, I unironically love the little Sultana. And yes, this is the prequel to "bandage dolls bleeding out"!

She forgot her name one morning. A brief panic shot through her waking brain, soon replaced with dull acceptance when she remembered the word- Parisa. Beautiful Parisa, pretty as a doll and cold as desert night. The little Sultana had not been called by her name in so very long. Perhaps because it was never hers to begin with. 

She had never liked the myth of the pari, never cared for air-headed jinns, pretty faces good for nothing but batting wings. If she ever caught one, she would lock it in a cage and see if it could do anything but cry- would it even try to fight? She wondered if a pari would remain beautiful in death, or maybe it’d grow gray and cold, like a rotting weed. (Like her.)

Someone (who?) had told her the pari were not so kind once upon a time. They were impish things with beautiful faces and nasty hearts, barred from paradise until they atoned for their sins. The girl (once) named Parisa preferred this version. She understood it better; she would sin, for paradise denied her, and paradise would deny her, for she had sinned. And what was this sin, she wondered, the root of it all?

The little Sultana had never known fear in her life, even when she very well should have. But she did understand frustration, helplessness, and the bitter tears that came with being alone. She remembered a night during her sixteenth summer, when the Shah (the love of her life?) had summoned the women of the harem and their children to play a small game. Then he ordered the lights put out so they could beat each other in the dark.

When the lamps returned, she found herself holding a crying boy (the son of whom she could not tell), one of his eyes blackened and bruised. Her lip was split and her hair torn, a trickle of blood beading from her nose. The others did not much react, and though worse for wear, they simply calmed their excited children and went to bed. 

“Did you have fun?” the Shah had asked her, eager to please.

His eyes were pure, as untainted as a boy (which he was). And she nodded, the blood still on her swelling lip. She must have enjoyed pounding at the others in the dark, twisting hair and biting skin. 

“Why do you ask, your majesty?” she’d said.

He looked away shyly. She remembered, then, that he’d seen her beat a servant once; for what reason, she did not recall but back then, perhaps it was because she’d married into a paradise she didn’t belong and there was no one else to take the brunt of her blow.

“Because I love you,” he told her.

She’d been embarrassed, ashamed that she had not won this game he designed, though she had no idea how anyone could win. She’d let the others bruise her and he’d seen. How could she be anything to him now? When she was no more than one of those house pets she so despised? And if she could not see herself as anything more, then how could she love him back? She did wish to love him back.

“I know,” she said, as sweetly as she could.

That night, she remembered sleeping with a dagger by her side. She’d considered slitting her throat and falling asleep to the scent of blood, rosy fragrant and tangy thick. But she didn’t. The little Sultana did not sleep and her fingers only brushed the dagger’s blade. 

Once upon a time- more than anything- she had wanted her parents to love her back. She had wanted the girls of her father’s friends to love her as well. She had wanted the servants to love her too. And it seemed, no one ever did (not truly and not without hate). She’d been powerless to their whims and the whims of so many others-- such was paradise, the kingdom that was not hers. To escape, she would need to sin. And everyone who hated her could be damned. 

Come dawn, she stabbed her maid- quite by accident- in the thigh and as the blood flowed, she wondered what repentance entailed. And one way or another, she decided to forsake it altogether. She was born alone and she would die alone, and in that space in between, an aching boredom (was that what it was called) settled in. And she would do anything (anything at all) to quell its roars. Sinners did not go to heaven anyway-- it was just as well. She did not want to go. She had enough of (his) paradise on Earth anyway.

* * *

Erik had hated Abed on sight. Nadir chalked it up to jealousy. His servant was a beautiful youth, with a head of silky locks and a mouth of plush red. The boy was not so tall, but neither was he short. His shoulders were just broad enough to fill out his cotton vests and the figure of an adolescent still lingered on his frame. 

“His nose is too big,” Erik once told the daroga, evidence enough that Abed’s nose was shaped just right and much more than the magician could ever wish for himself.

Contrary to whatever story had been circulating upon Nadir’s return from Nijni-Novgorod, he hadn’t taken Abed along. By then, the servant had been with him for two full years and no less clumsy than when he first arrived. He was- unfortunately- more of a younger brother than anything else. Abed, for all his devotion, was not the most perceptive when it came to direction or tongue (or much else, for that matter). He made a good secretary and he was certainly an excellent footman, but Nadir needed a man as quick with fists as he was with feet. And so, to ensure his own safety on the journey and back, the daroga brought his cousin Kaveh along instead. 

Kaveh was a relation Nadir rarely contacted. He was a head taller than the daroga, perhaps more if not for his slouch, and broad, a man who looked twice his age. And he loved to complain. Perhaps that was why Nadir spoke so little to him-- Kaveh seemed perpetually bitter over the simplest things. 

“This magician better be worth our time,” the man had told him en route, scratching a bushy beard as his thick brows dipped down. 

Nadir recalled Kaveh describing their magician as too “scrawny” and his offensive assessment that Erik would die of disease before they returned to court (on account of the daroga’s incompetence, at that). No, Nadir could not say he was fond of Kaveh but he trusted the man. He judged him to be a noble enough character and a man who could commit. He was correct on both fronts.

Thanks to his cousin, they made it from Tehran to Nijni-Novgorod and back in one piece, luggage and all. 

As Nadir expected from the moment he saw Erik’s gruesome face, the little Sultana was delighted upon the magician’s arrival in court. Her glee could have shattered glass, and so taken by her happiness, the Shah had laughed along. Truly, she was so happy that Nadir almost forgot who this young woman was. Happiness from her never led to good things.

Abed, on the other hand, had been terrified of the new man. Erik indeed cut a ghostly figure, tall and dark, his frock dusted with snow and dirt. Behind a black mask, his yellow eyes shone, catlike and wicked as they sized the servant up. To Nadir’s embarrassment, Abed had cowered behind him when Erik approached, leading a white horse by the reins. 

He pointed a spindly finger at Abed, ashen yellow and thin as bone. In flawless Farsi, he said, “Servant, get my things.”

Abed gaped, perhaps stunned by that hymn of a voice, far too lovely for the creature in black. 

“Abed, do as he says,” Nadir ordered, lightly pushing the young man out.

As Abed approached the horse and the luggage it carried, he said, “Right- right away. What shall I call you, sir?”

Impatient, the magician walked past him, Abed visibly flinching as he came too near. Perhaps sneering under that mask, the man answered: “Erik.”

Then he passed Nadir as well. And the daroga shuddered too.

* * *

She first heard about the magician with the face of a corpse from idle gossip. One of the eunuchs had spoken of him, a rumor passed on from a fur dealer fond of such coarse things. They said this man called himself the Living Corpse and was, by all means, a devil of tricks with the voice of sugar. 

The little Sultana had pleased herself with many things throughout the years, pet after pet- lions and tigers and crocodiles and ostriches and whatever else she asked to see- and show after show (one amusement after another). No matter what it was (that owl she’d been so fond of), who it was (that last magician with the glass eye and fake sorcery), what she felt (the Shah himself, most of all), it always started with a thrill of love. Then, for those precious moments and days, she was alive.

And then, just as quickly as it’d come, that rush would trickle to the same dull pain she felt day in and out, made all the more unbearable by memories better left untouched. And the only thing that could revive her vigor was the sight of blood. When she ordered those pets slaughtered- for she’d rather they die in a blaze of glory than wither and fade- and that man hung- for she’d hated him for insisting his tricks were real- and stopped loving her Shah- for she realized she never did- she clung to the thought of death. It was all she could do to assure herself that she lived. 

The other sultanas never spoke of the executions. They’d faint at the sight. But she reveled in it, finding glee where others felt bile. People became paper, easily shredded at her fingertips, and she delighted in touching pain. The sights where real, as were the thrills, but a part of her saw death as a means to her ends and no more. If she was born to please a man, then surely everyone else was born to please her.

Only glimpses of death and pain could puncture her reality (life in court, a pretty wife and nothing more), a reminder that there still remained something able to pierce her shriveling heart. That heart had never been hers to begin with-- her father had given it to the Shah long ago, and by the time she realized, it was too late to take it back.

Perhaps this was her way of begging it to beat. 

And when the magician finally arrived from Nijni-Novgorod, it did beat. His death’s head was every bit as wretched as the daroga promised, and like a child, she soaked in his hellish visage with utter glee. Better yet, he obeyed her every word. He basked in her praise. And he lived for her words, not the Shah-in-Shah’s. He pleased the Shah for her sake, not the other way around, as it had always used to be.

“Would you kill for me too?” she’d asked him once, “would you do anything I say?”

He mulled over her words, and rising from his bow, said, “Thy wish is my command.”

She basked in the warmth of his gaze, as adoring as a tethered dog. 

Then she asked, “And would you let me bleed you dry?”

“If you wish, it shall be so.”

He said it with such conviction that her hollow heart skipped a beat. And she wondered if perhaps that dull pain would never return, if perhaps he would fill her wounds with his blood instead, and gladly die without a regret on his ugly face. 

_ I have no heart to give to you. But give yours to me, I promise- to swallow it whole. _

* * *

Nadir was tasked with keeping an eye on the newcomer. As expected, it was a thankless mission. Erik was fickler than a cat and he delighted in making himself as cruel an inconvenience as possible. And more often than not, Nadir felt that Erik was the one spying on  _ him _ , for the magician always knew where to find the daroga (even when he himself was nowhere in sight).

Erik had the terrible habit of bursting out from behind walls and bushes, for no reason it seemed other than to frighten the daroga half to death. As Nadir recovered his breath, Erik cackled (an absolute imp!). Eventually, these nasty surprises gave way to actual reasons when the Shah provided Erik with more work, work that did not involve amusing the Sultana.

“These are the drafts for a new summer palace. Quite befitting for a monarch, wouldn’t you say, Daroga?”

“Look, Daroga! This is a new playhouse for the cats! Don’t you envy those felines now?”

“Daroga, I’ve completed renovations for the west wing. Come see!”

Nadir quickly learned that- at least when it came to his talents- Erik had an ego that rivaled the Shah-in-Shah’s. He would ask for the daroga’s opinion on these projects and throw a mighty tantrum (“You dolt! What would a policeman know!?”) should Nadir’s comments not amount to brainless praise. The only criticism he deferred to was his majesty’s and the little Sultana’s, and when their words revealed the slightest disappointment, Erik would kowtow against the floor, pressing that skull until it bled against tiles. 

Then he’d disappear for days at a time, gone to the gardens to sob his heart out. It was a rare occurrence, but one that deeply amused the court nonetheless. 

Perhaps the magician’s ego was so fragile because those skills were all he had. Erik spoke so rarely of his life before Nijni-Novgorod that Nadir assumed he had none- no home, no family, and certainly no friends. He made a living for himself through sleight of hand and displaying his death’s head. If nothing else, Erik was a man born to survive in a world that- in all honesty- had no place for him.

But Nadir did not pity him. He rather feared him. Because there was nothing a man like that could not do and would not do.

* * *

“Have you ever lived in the dark, Erik?” she asked the magician one evening.

She was seated in the garden, a lone eunuch by her side as the magician conjured humming flowers and birds that roared, little trifles for her amusement. The Shah did not have time for trivial acts that night, and it was just as well- she did not want him around anyway.

“Since the day I was born,” he said.

He stood across from her, a bed of roses between her pillows and his feet, the hem of his robe just barely trailing above grass. Garbed in black and blue, he appeared a masked crow, caged in by thorn and tree. Had he tried to flutter those wings, they would catch on her prickly thorns- then feathers and flesh would tear while blood ran free, brushing the roses until they bloomed free.

“Did your mother hate you?” she said, “with a face like that?”

“Yes.”

“She was generous then. If you were my child, I would have smothered you.”

He plucked another rose from its bed.

“But it would be such a shame if you died at birth,” she told him, “because who else would be my magician? I do so enjoy having you around, Erik.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

“We had other entertainers before. But I like you best of all. You’re the only one who knows what it’s like to live in the dark.”

He blew the petals her way, twirling them into a pattern of flying birds. Mesmerized, she watched, compelled to speak on:

“I was born in the dark too. I never saw the light of day until I was ten years old.” And it was true- she was born from adultery, a babe her mother wished to hide, a source of much unhappiness in her old home. “The first time I left the house, I cried. It was all so bright, Erik- I thought I’d gone blind.”

The man she called ‘father’ recognized her for what she was- pretty. Who she was, whose she was, none of it mattered in the face of facts: she was pretty and that was all she was expected to be. 

“My mother would beat me if I cried,” she told him, “they would lock me back up if I did. But that was a long time ago. Now-” she grinned. “I lock them up.”

Her parents were elsewhere now, banished by her demand, but not after a trying year in prison (not enough). She had pressured the Shah to do much worse, but he felt he owed her sires more courtesy than that. Instead, they’d been stripped of their land and sent away, her siblings and their spouses, children and all. 

“Do you think me a monster?” she said, “for doing such things? I’ve been called many names for what I did.”

Adamant, he said, “No.”

His eyes burned bright, near glowing as they caught on rays of the setting sun. “You are- how do you say?- a rose with many thorns.”

She smiled, a curve of soft lips. His gaze shone, enough to tell that- beneath the veil behind his mask- he smiled back. 

She wished the crow would try to fly then, so her thorns could pierce its wings and keep it in her garden until it withered to bone.

* * *

When Erik was given a task as hideous as his visage, Nadir was the first to know. The little Sultana ordered her magician to turn execution into a show. And the Shah had approved- these men were condemned anyway, and those who weren’t- what reason had they to keep them alive? That had been Erik’s reasoning.

“Erik, are you not the slightest bit worried?” the daroga had asked.

The magician shrugged. “Not particularly. You caught these men yourself, didn’t you? The world would be better off without them. And the prison is getting ever so crowded.”

“They may not be good men, but to die in such a way- how can it sit well with you?”

“Why does it bother  _ you _ so? Killing has never been very hard, you see.”

It baffled Nadir then, to know that Erik truly did not see what was so wrong with his new orders. He was pleasing the Shah, yes? And the Sultana delighted in his tricks, no? And what was worse- death or wasting away behind bars? 

Erik took to his assignments with glee, fashioning a series of contraptions that could fit into an estate of their own. His imagination ran free, and as far as the Sultana was concerned, Erik was bestowing the world with more gifts- toy upon toy, each more brilliant than the last. Indeed, Nadir had never seen Erik so happy. But it was a shadowed joy, one that could only bring smiles to a broken wretch, for it was the broken that loved to break.

And when it came time to test those new toys (and they worked, for Erik’s things always worked), the magician knelt by the Sultana’s feet like a hungry bird. He did not care for the screams of those who died, pulled apart by his traps or pierced by his little games. Their blood was paint that he could wash out later, their screams sounds that would soon stop, their bones nothing that could not burn to ash, their flesh nothing more than feed for crows. Death was nothing and neither was pain. It was all a price to pay for the Sultana’s grin, and Erik would live and die by her words of praise. 

When the daroga refused to see what Erik had next constructed, the magician threw a mighty fit and demanded to know why. 

“His majesty told you to stay by my side!” the Frenchman argued, “and now that I share my secrets with you, you refuse! Why? Are my skills not good enough for you, Daroga, is that it!?”

And unable to take any more of the monster’s spew, Nadir grabbed him by the collar, a fistful of black cloth in his hands. Shaking that devil of a man- for then, he had been everything the daroga loathed- he hissed, “Because it’s wrong! It’s evil and sickly, and only a beast would bring this into our world!”

Abed would later ask why Erik hadn’t struck the master back. Was the trapdoor lover not an untamed beast? Was he not a creature filled with wickedness and rage and nothing more? How was it that the daroga left unscathed?

All Erik had done was tilt his head, a blankness in his gaze. And it was a look so odd that Nadir let him go. 

When he returned to his apartment, Nadir scrubbed his hands clean, eager to wash away any evil that could have hopped from Erik to him. But as he wiped those hands, he remembered that look, and thought, “What evil?” One needed a soul to be evil and he doubted the magician (the monster) ever had one to begin with.

Abed would still cower around Erik, and so, the daroga told him not to fear.

With a hint of disgust, Nadir said, “Someone like him knows nothing of goodness, but we have no need to hate an animal that does not know right from wrong _.  _ Avoid the beast and it leaves you be.”

* * *

She wondered when her crow would realize it was in a cage, but such things never occurred to him. Erik was infamous in her husband’s court, a shadow that conspired and killed and killed again. But the Sultana knew the truth clearest of all-- Erik’s machines had done more work than him, and her ugly crow was purer than fresh fallen snow. He- to her- was the only servant that cared if his masters were happy or not, in return for nothing at all. 

His love was true and his loyalty won. He valued her (and the Shah, because of her) above his mind, more than body and heart. If he was a shadow, it was because he thought himself less than man. When he conspired, it was to whisper lullabies by her side.

Erik was content and he sought to repay the court in the only way he knew how: prostrating himself, body and soul, to anyone hungry enough to feed. 

And she was starving.

How long could his devotion last? How long until he stopped seeing her as a rose with thorns? How long until she could clip his wings and break his beak? A voice told her he would never leave, for he knew how it would pain her to see him go. It also told her he would see soon that she was far worse than a thorny rose. But perhaps he would learn to embrace this monstrosity with open arms, for what else could a creature like him do?

“Kill for me,” she told him. 

Then she could stain him red, blacken his soul as much as her missing heart. 

“Thy wish is my command.”

She ordered the arena refurbished. And in place of a lion, she put her crow in. She made him work- not behind his traps and doors- with his hands. They were beautiful upon the lute and harp, and even more so when they killed- those hands electrified. He spun the noose as one would a silk thread, and before him, no man had even the time to scream.

With each triumph, he’d flash his monstrous face, making sure that his (her) victims glimpsed the reaper’s head one final time before their ends.

She delighted in their deaths. And so, he fought on.

But once, perhaps distracted by the glory of her praise and the Shah’s awe, Erik did not snap his rope in time. His opponent (victim) turned, overwhelmed with the need to live, and barreled into the magician’s chest. Erik dashed the man’s skull against the wall instead. 

He pressed a hand to his ribs and sighed. She watched him breathe, air fighting to pump through, frame tense as he leveled the pain. 

“Are you well?” the Shah asked. 

“Yes!” the magician cried, “I have never felt so well!”

The Sultana later learned that one of his ribs had bruised. But Erik returned to work (among his traps and blueprints and flutes and strings), as if nothing had touched him at all. She imagined that bruise clinging to his rib, a black mark that would spread across his chest and into vein. And soon that bruise would cover his heart as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood, vomit, canon-typical violence (but nothing on the level of "bandaged dolls bleeding out")

There was a time when the master could not stand to breathe the same air as Erik. The daroga sent Abed to tend and watch Erik instead. The servant was to report back with his findings, though there was never anything Abed said of note. Or rather, nothing of note to the daroga. The most Abed could gather was that construction would soon start on a chamber of mirrors, a design the Shah-in-Shah was most looking forward to. And sometimes Erik smelled of blood. Abed knew because the magician liked to dump his dirty laundry into the servant's hands.

“He should get his own man,” the master once scoffed, upon seeing Abed scrub Erik’s sullied robes.

But even when the daroga ordered him to leave the laundry be, Abed was afraid of what Erik would do should he disobey. Whenever he stopped by the magician’s dwelling, Erik fixed him with a silent glare, not unlike an owl that never blinked. And then he would speak, each word as hypnotic as it was sharp. He thought Abed a fool, and he made sure to remind him at every chance.

“I do not like spies,” Erik once said, “and if you value your head, boy, you’ll mind yourself dearly.”

But what Abed hated most was the magician’s habit of coming up behind him, a wicked grin upon that unmasked face. Abed jumped from shock each time, and Erik laughed from spite, all too delighted to see the servant go white from fright.

“Once the chamber’s done, you’ll be the first to see,” Erik often said, an ugly note to his otherwise flawless tongue, “then your master too. I’ll make you regret spying on me.”

“I see,” Abed answered dumbly, simply eager to escape the magician’s taunts.

Erik always made him feel like prey. 

* * *

The chamber of mirrors would be the most recent addition to that hall of death, and the little Sultana looked forward to it very much. It might have been the result of a fevered discussion between the Shah and her crow (to construct an object as deadly as it was lovely), but she knew the credit to be her own. She’d asked Erik, “What do you fear the most?”

Without hesitation, he’d answered, “A mirror.” And perhaps mulling on that idea, he took to his floor plans. 

When spring closed, the Shah (no longer the love of her life) threw a banquet in her honor. It was not her birthday nor anything else worth celebrating. Perhaps he feared her heart was no longer his. This was a profession of his love, a final stake to keeping her bound. He could have her. She would not protest. He’d yet to learn that her heart was not in her chest. 

And where it was, he could never guess.

The performers dazzled as the dishes came, strumming a variety of beats and tunes with each dance. The musicians followed suit, instruments singing with no pause. And then the magician spun his act, a melody that spoke of lush green forests and brilliant suns. Like the others, she sat frozen by his song, trapped in a stupor not unlike water behind glass.

A girl brought her wine, the taste of shrimp still fresh on her tongue. Absently, she took the goblet and brought it to her lips-

The song stopped then. 

Erik swooped in, sleeves fluttering as he pushed the cup from her hands, cold wrist brushing skin. He caught it swishing and touched the goblet to his mouth. 

“What are you doing!?” she heard the daroga cry, leaping upwards with all the intent to fight.

The daroga’s men followed suit. Then Erik was upon the ground, the daroga sitting atop his back. And as soon as it happened, Erik wriggled free, leaving the daroga to hit the empty floor. 

“What is the meaning of this?” her husband said, a deadly threat at the edge of each word.

Erik wiped his lip with the back of his sleeve. Then he flicked a finger at the girl by the Sultana’s side.

“Ask her, your majesty.”

He took his leave, and not long after, the daroga dashed after him in a rage. The Shah wanted to issue the magician’s arrest then and there, and as he ranted to her about what punishments he had in store for Erik, the Sultana only nodded and traced the rim of her empty cup, finger roaming over where he’d kissed.

They enjoyed the rest of their banquet, now so boring without Erik, and some hours later, the daroga returned with his report. Out of breath and trying to hide the dried blood on his hands, he spoke. Not long ago, he found the magician huddled by the rose garden, doubling over as he retched red. Evidently, poison was in her wine and the proof lay in Erik’s blood.

“Tell him to clean the roses when he’s well, Daroga,” the Sultana told their Khan, “and that blood on your hand- is it his?”

The daroga nodded. She imagined Erik crumbling in the yard, heaps of blood splashing over the daroga’s hand as her crow struggled to keep his coughing at bay. But he must have failed. Perhaps he was lying in the rose bed now, a mess of black and red as the thorns stung his wings. 

* * *

Abed learned that Erik had swallowed ground glass, the pieces crushed so finely that they blended with wine. He hadn’t been present for the incident, but he knew that for whatever reason, the magician- in a spark of madness- gobbled down the Sultana’s wine, from her cup no less. Abed was more surprised that the Shah hadn’t thrown Erik in prison than anything else. The master’s concerns, however, were more with the glass itself.

“How did they slip it in?” the daroga had mumbled, “and when?”

Abed had no answer for the master. He could only listen to his theories- on who and why- while Erik hacked blood into shaking hands, the Frenchman slumping against the daroga as the master’s tight grip kept him upright. If the sound of bile in air or the sight of blood on cloth bothered the master, he certainly paid no mind.

“Should I bring him to the washroom?” Abed dared to ask, the magician suddenly not so intimidating now that he was a quaking mess.

“Oh.” As if remembering that Erik was still leaning against him, the daroga scowled, all too eager to rid himself of this burden. “Yes, Abed. Do so.”

He passed Erik over and when Abed steadied the magician’s steps, the master growled, “As for you, Erik, I’ll be back soon. So stay put.”

Then a hand snapped out, splashed with blood. Fingers coiled around the daroga’s shoulder, digging into cloth as the magician gasped, “Daroga- the girl- ask her-”

Ignorant of the blood now upon his shirt, the master said, intent, “I will. Rest assured-”

“No! Ask her mistress! Her mis-”

Erik’s head collided with the floor. The master left. If he heard the thud, he did not look back. And Abed stayed to clean it all up. He started by plucking the thorns from Erik’s robe.

* * *

Erik had nearly died for her. And he had done it without a second thought. She tried to make sense of it, mind looping again and again to the cup he’d stolen from her grasp. Thy wish is my command, he would tell her, but this was not her wish. What had she to gain if her crow died like this? She hated the idea of him dying at another’s whim. And where would that leave her? 

Bereft by her husband’s side, forever mourning the one man that would die for her. It made her so angry that she wept. She hated thinking of what would happen should he die, of what would happen should he live. That other wretch of a woman had long since run away. And her servant (the girl), she’d ordered to her bedroom. There, she’d flicked the punjab around the girl’s neck- a trick taught by her beloved crow- and snapped the breath out. 

The Sultana did not like the idea of owing the magician anything. She did not like (hated) thinking of him as yet another who could hold her in his debt. No, her crow would know its place. She would keep this cage locked and sealed, and he- should he live- will be grateful for her gaze instead.

And when she heard he’d woken, she wept again.

* * *

Erik was lucid after a few days’ rest (unfortunately). And Abed was once more subject to his sharp words, but in the time between Erik’s collapse and his recovery, his edge had dulled. Since the night that the master brought Erik home, Abed had dutifully helped the magician wash and change. He’d seen the scars crossing that gangly body- that frame much smaller without its shield of cloth- and the bruises, some fading and some fresh, all evidence that Erik was just a man after all.

For all his talents and all his sins, Erik could not do much to harm Abed as he lay bedridden with a sore throat. Once the poison passed, he’d demanded tea with lemon in hoarse whispers. 

“Are you hungry?” Abed had asked him, “you haven’t eaten in days.”

“When I eat is none of your business, boy! So get out of my sight.”

And just as Abed left his sight, Erik cried out, “Abed, come back! I’m out of tea!”

As the hours went on, Erik seemed less shrouded monster and more petulant child. For a man who willingly swallowed glass, he was astoundingly whiny when it came to tiny comforts- “Abed, I need another pillow” “Abed, warm up this tea” “Abed, there’s a hole in my sock” “Yes, I’m barefoot now but I do not like seeing a hole in my sock!” “Abed, open the window” “No, Abed, close the window”- And so on.

The servant did not know what it was about himself that made Erik so fickle. Perhaps it was the fact that Abed was not allowed to contest him (while the master could). Perhaps it was because Abed was younger and too scared to fight back. Or perhaps- out of the master’s sight for so long- Erik saw no reason to pretend he was anything more than a grouchy cat. But a cat that _killed_ \- this, Abed tried to remind himself.

Running errands became a respite from Erik’s demands- and not even a week had passed (Abed certainly hoped the magician would be on his feet soon enough)- and an hour of light, away from what other duties he had. There was a group of boys (little sons of servants whose names he always mixed up) that frolicked in the corners of the courtyard on some afternoons. 

The first time they’d asked (demanded) he play with them, he’d been too overwhelmed to say no. The daroga had scolded him for returning late. He’d promised not to do it again. And then the boys roped him into playing with them again- for they needed a taller playmate to chase them around- and again. By now, it was simply his habit to stop and play with these children that deliberately called him “Adib.”

“I’m very busy,” he said, “not today.”

“Just one game, Adib- if you win, we won’t ask you to play with us again.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“We’ll hide and you find us!”

So he closed his eyes and let them run amok. When he opened them, the boys were gone (and frustratingly well-hidden). Abed started by searching between the shrubs, and that was how Erik found him. 

“What are you doing, Abed?” the magician asked, still rather sickly, looking much frailer garbed in white.

“You can walk now?” the servant said, trying to change their subject, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Answer me first.”

The servant blushed and explained his plight (he hadn’t meant to stay out this long of course, please don’t tell master), quite sure Erik would snort. Instead, the Frenchman looked to the tree behind, eyes amused behind that mask. 

“There’s a boy up there.” He pointed at the branches, and sure enough, a boy dropped down.

Then Erik went about pointing out each child, sometimes pretending he could not see a boy hiding in a particularly blind spot. One child simply stood behind a tree and kept his eyes shut. Erik circled around and around where he stood, and in the end, gave up. 

“This one’s too well disguised. I can’t find him,” the Frenchman said, “now you all must declare a winner!”

The children argued over his decision, and once their game changed again, screamed with laughter when they wanted to play pretend. To Abed’s shock, the boys begged ‘sir’ to play with them, and to his further surprise, Erik agreed (“but you lot may not touch this mask- or I’ll never play with you again”). Forced to play a dead body by their leader, Abed lay in the grass with his tongue out (hoping nobody important would see this sight), still baffled as to why Erik did not leave (or at least frighten the children as he was so wont to do with Abed). Erik played his killer, and dancing with the boys at his side, he cried, “Ah ha ha! I am the angel of death- which brave young man dares stop my evil reign?”

“Die, monster!”

“Not before I eat a little boy!”

And then the boys were upon him, toppling the magician onto the ground as they avenged “Adib.” The children rolled to their feet, giggling at their victory, when Erik snatched a child back down by his sleeve. The others returned to rescue him, and just when they pinned the magician, he wriggled free.

Still “dead,” Abed watched the boys chase Erik to the trees and back. Then he too joined in, finally collapsing beside Erik as the monster “died,” felled by that little band, rumbly laughter from his covered mouth. Perhaps truly out of breath, Erik pressed a hand to his pale throat and sighed. And that was when Abed saw the daroga watching from the path ahead, his presence scaring the boys off. _Erik doesn’t scare them, but my master does?_ Abed mused, still as confused as he could be.

“So this is what you two have been doing,” the daroga said, some confusion in his gaze (for once, glancing at Erik with something other than disgust).

“What we do is none of your concern.” Erik sat up with a yawn.

“Abed is my man and I’ve yet to interrogate _you._ It’s very much my concern.” The master looked to Abed. “Aren’t you a bit old to play with children?” 

“They forced me, Master.”

The daroga crossed his arms and joined them upon the grass. For a moment, the feeling of normalcy touched the air. 

“Erik,” the master said, “you were right. It was the girl’s mistress, the seventh Sultana. How did you know?”

“The little Sultana shares her thoughts with me. I’m very well-liked, you know.”

The daroga choked on a snort. “Then tell me this. Why drink the wine yourself? If you knew it was poisoned?”

“Use your brain, you old fart. One sip of that won’t leave you retching for hours. And I have no intention of taking the blame for putting the glass in- I know what you’re thinking, ‘how else would Erik know?’ Well, are you satisfied now? I had nothing to do with it.”

The master shook his head, Abed trying his best to look away. “I have another theory. You didn’t trust anyone else to actually drink the wine. You know how _popular_ the little Sultana is in court.” 

“I’ve got better things to do than listen to your drivel-”

“You thought her life in danger and you would rather throw your life away for hers than wait for some incompetent slave to do it. Is that right?”

Erik stood, swaying slightly, and dusted the grass blades from his skirt. “Say whatever you want, Daroga.”

“Oh, struck a nerve, did I? You know what else I think, Erik?”

“I’m telling you to shut up!”

“I think you’re nothing but a toy to her. Do this again, and next time, you will die, do you understand?” The master’s voice was level, but Abed could hear the heat within. “She will not care.”

Erik spun around, face in front of the master’s in two rushed steps, a clenched fist aimed to strike. Then he lowered his hand and hissed, _“You think I don’t know that?”_

Further incensed by the daroga’s impassive face, Erik turned and stalked away. Abed was sure he would return to his own apartment that night. Beside him, the daroga sighed, gaze falling to his lap.

“Go visit him tonight,” the master said, “see that he’s well.”

Abed nodded. “Master, do- do you still hate him? He’s not so bad, really.”

“He’s a murderer. Remember that.” 

“But you said so yourself- it’s only on his majesty’s orders.” But Abed knew there was a world of a difference between being ordered to wash clothes and being ordered to snap a man’s neck. 

“I’ve come to realize something,” the daroga said, a touch melancholic, “he does not do these things because he enjoys doing wrong, Abed, but because he is too innocent to question why they are wrong. And I suppose ignorance is bliss.”

* * *

The Shah had other uses for her crow. How many different ways could they bleed him, she began to wonder? She wanted to clip the crow’s wings and leave it crippled in its cage. But that was not enough for her (once beloved) Shah. She could feel it, the sensation of feathers against his hand as he plucked the crow’s feathers out- one by one. And still, the stupid thing did not have the sense to fly away.

But she would not have let it fly away. Erik was hers, and she knew he would happily remain that way.

But it still did not sit well to watch the Shah use him in ways she could not see. Her husband did not demand shows and spectacles of death anymore (for those had been for her sake). He asked (told) the magician to do his bidding away from prying eyes. From then on, he would be the Angel of Death outside of court, no more than a shadow that stalked and killed their prey. She had asked the magician what he thought, and he’d only said, “Thy wish is my command.”

And she let the Shah have his way. Because next to him, Parisa was still no more than another face in court. 

* * *

Miraculously enough, a bit of bliss did follow their day on the grass. Nadir continued to watch the magician, but something had changed between them, one way or another. Perhaps he’d come to understand Erik at last, and with that understanding, an assurance that they were both made of the same flesh and blood. Abed remained wary of Erik, but he was evidently comfortable enough to bring him stray cats. Nadir could no longer tell if Erik was hosting strays or pets-- either way, the Frenchman enjoyed pampering those cats, often purring in tune beside them.

He once tried to compare a green-eyed kitten to Nadir himself and he’d said it with such seriousness that the daroga laughed. Nadir tried to disguise it as a snort, and found himself coughing instead. Then Erik mocked him for coughing fur balls (which he did not cough up).

If Erik had been stung by his words on the grass, the magician made no mention of it. He continued to thrust his blueprints in Nadir’s face. He’d drag Nadir (and force Abed) to his workroom so he could show them his latest knickknacks. He delighted in making toys for the little Sultana- and now those boys- and as of late, he showed the devices of torture less and less. Nadir knew for a fact that the chamber of mirrors was complete, and that a certain group of unlucky men had met their end within.

Erik had called it one of his greatest accomplishments upon completion. And then he never spoke of it again. Perhaps the toll of death had finally disturbed him, or more likely, he was simply too tired to indulge in such twisted things. 

“How many men must die?” he had once asked Erik, offended by the mere sight of that mirrored wall.

“However many his majesty wants, of course,” the magician answered (matter-of-factly), as if death was nothing at all to him (for it never had been). 

Regardless, Nadir knew there was no reason to dwell on Erik quite so much- the Shah had already given him permission to relax his vigil. And yet, the daroga could not leave the Frenchman alone. He often forgot that the magician was French, perhaps because he was so accustomed to seeing Erik as another part of the court’s scenery, and the man certainly acted as if he had no life before Persia. 

Nadir told himself he only wished to keep Erik from doing harm, but then he wondered if he really meant to keep Erik away from harm. Because the more the months drew by, the more he knew the monster to be just another young man, if not a boy (who had estimated himself nineteen, twenty, more or less- “I’d lost count, Abed”- when the servant asked). This was a boy who played marbles with children and loved a good prank. He still licked sugar off his fingers because he liked the taste. He sang himself to sleep and cuddled with cats. And more than anything, this boy lived for the praise and scraps of kindness from whoever was willing to offer.

Erik would gladly die for the Sultana if she wished, and more chillingly- though he knew it unspoken- Nadir himself if the daroga asked. 

“Why is he so attached to me?” Nadir once asked his servant, “I’ve been quite clear with my disdain.”

Abed had hesitated, still playing with the pocket watch that Erik had crafted for him (“Not even the richest nobles have such a thing!”), and said, “Because he thinks you’re attached to him, Master.”

“Why would he think that?”

And looking at Nadir as if he was the worst detective in Persia, the servant said, “Because you’re the only one who cares if he’s well. You keep him company whenever he asks. We know- I mean, Erik knows you have a harsh tongue, but he knows you mean well.”

Did he mean well? Nadir did not know. But he knew for a fact that the little Sultana did not care that her magician was overworked. Between the Shah’s assignments and his wife’s dear executions, Erik hardly had time for his magic tricks, let alone the time to eat and sleep. Perhaps Nadir was the only one that noticed how this routine was finally taking its toll on Erik’s health. 

Eventually, the boys stopped asking Erik to play with them, perhaps because they learned the true nature of the magician’s job. But Erik had only shrugged and returned to his cats.

* * *

The Sultana felt the familiar mood of boredom set in, followed by a dull pang of envy she could not quell. Her husband had stolen the crow from her and set it to work on his own devices- could she not have one thing that did not belong him? Could she not have one thing that did not forsake her for someone else?

She decided to put the Shah in his place (as he had done to her so many times in the past). And she would make Erik prove himself loyal to her every word. 

“Your fights are beginning to bore me,” she told the magician as he prepared to enter the ring, “I would like to level the playing field, Erik.”

Touching the punjab to his wrist, he said, after a pause, “What would you have me do?”

The Sultana smiled. She ordered him to lay his hands out, fingers stretched for the grim guards ahead. She asked them to break those digits, two on each side- index and ring, middle and fore. 

“Thy wish is my command.”

And before the Shah could protest, hands wrapped around long fingers like thick vines. They twisted and snapped. If it hurt, the magician did not show it. He clutched his hands to his chest and walked into the fight, not a beat slower.

His broken bones gave the opposing wretch some advantage, and she watched in delight as her crow danced around the other man, waiting to strike. When he finally lunged, the punjab popped out a second too late. Erik stumbled, a gash torn along his chest, blood sliding along the other man’s blade.

He dodged another blow, and then spurred by his victim’s burst of desperation, whirled around to thrust his cord around the man’s neck. The body dropped, and triumphant, Erik looked to the Sultana first. He ripped his mask off. And flashed a crooked grin, sharp and unseemly against that excuse of a face.

The Sultana hopped to her feet and clapped. She did not see the look of horror on the daroga’s face. And in the end, the Shah went ahead with his plans anyway. 

* * *

_His majesty had sent Erik to Mohammerah. And the magician did not come back. When it dawned on Nadir that Erik- already so battered and ill- could not possibly survive on his own, he wrote to Kaveh first._

_His cousin could not accompany him this time, for he was occupied with the birth of his second child. Instead, he replied Nadir with a map, the fastest route from Tehran to the English camp, and a prediction that neither Nadir or his Frenchman would come out alive._

_Then he’d gone to the Sultana and said, “Your highness, I know you wish for Erik’s return. If you will allow me, I promise to bring him back.”_

_Her lovely eyes narrowed. “You need my help, Daroga.”_

_He nodded._

_“Very well,” she said, “Daroga Khan, do not even set foot back here if you let him die.”_

_He bowed. “Thy wish is my command.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And there are some callbacks to "bandaged dolls" in here too *winks*
> 
> Abed and Kaveh are part of a small cast of rosy hour OCs' I've had since forever but never wrote for until now lol. This whole series is something I'm personally interested in seeing so I wanted to get it off the ground. The next story's going to be a sequel to "bandaged dolls" and in case anyone besides me is interested in seeing how it goes- fair warning: the next 3 fics in particular will be quite dark (and rough on Erik).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope this installment of the series was interesting! Comments/kudos are always welcome!
> 
> I was thinking of re-ordering the series, but I think having the first story open on Erik being half tortured to death sets the correct tone for the rest of these stories. So this one will be part 2 instead! It's also arguably the *least* violent/angsty fic in this whole thing.


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